My Left Thumb

The following post was written this summer, but my thumb still hurts.

Itzhak Perlman and I kicked off the weekend together this morning—he playing Saint-Saëns, I washing dishes. And suddenly, in a revelatory moment, I knew why my thumb had been hurting for the last few months: because it’s where I have rested every bloody thing we own—every champagne glass and ceramic platter and rustic basket and flute-playing angel and brass candlestick holder—as I cleaned it before either packing or selling it. Hundreds of items, large and small, heavy or light, have perched in the same spot on my left thumb and my thumb can’t take it anymore.

Barbara Kruger understands. (That’s her art above.) My previously small world has grown exponentially with every item that pops out of a drawer or stands in the shadows of a closet. It feels never-ending and has altered my identity. I have become The Dustbuster. And my poor thumb has suffered for it.

However, to improve my spirits, I started a new book. What better for a Dustbuster to read than Evelyn Waugh’s A Handful of Dust? It’s breezy, it’s funny, and it’s an altogether different world to escape to. (Of course, this isn’t the case if you’re part of the landed gentry.) It provides perfect relief from any kind of monotony that’s staked a claim on you.

And when I’m finished with it, I’m giving it away. I finally understand what mathematician Pál Erdös meant when he said, “Property is a nuisance.”